


Sweet Hospitality

by tweed_princess



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 1870s Louisiana AU, Cunnilingus, F/M, Kate Chopin, Sazeracs, Smut, Spurned Housewife!Sansa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 12:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8666755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweed_princess/pseuds/tweed_princess
Summary: The pounding of hooves and the whinny of a horse caught her attention just as she’d wrenched the linens free. At first, she thought maybe Harry had returned to her; she was surprised to find that it was a different person entirely, a man in a black cloak on an even blacker horse. When he lowered his hood, she almost dropped Anya Waynwood’s heirloom linens right into the muck.“Jon?”“Sorry to intrude, Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing deeply despite the rain. An improper title if there ever was one; she was a woman grown and married, but it made her blush nonetheless. "Mind if I find respite in your home ‘til this storm is through?”





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work is lovingly inspired by The Storm by Kate Chopin, my favorite short story ever. This miiight be part of a series, WE'LL SEE.   
> As always, your kudos are appreciated. You can find me at disorganizeddomesticgoddess.tumblr.com. 
> 
> Now, let the sexy melodrama commence!

**Louisiana, 1874**

“You can’t go! The storm will be here any moment!”

Harry chuckled, throwing his saddle over his horse. “Darlin’, Yohn Royce’s is just up the road. I’ll beat the rain, and I promise I will hunker down and wait out the storm.”

_It’s not you I’m worried about, you bastard._ She almost _wished_ the storm would take him away. Sansa knew he wasn’t going to Yohn Royce’s to discuss business matters or play poker; he was going to see Monsieur Royce’s ample-bosomed daughter. Sansa may have been too naïve to notice the affair between Harry and Myranda Royce when she first married him, but she certainly wasn’t any longer, especially when they had the gall to carry it out in her own house.

Harry leaned down to kiss her. Sansa offered him her cheek, but he grabbed her almost roughly by the chin, planting a kiss on her lips. It was everything she had not to roll her eyes.

“Be a doll and shutter up the house and fetch the linens before the rain begins. I’ll be back ‘pon the morning.”

And with that, he swung his legs over the saddle, and rode off.

\--

The clouds were heavy and gray by midday, and the humidity was enough to make Sansa’s hair frizz and her skin gleam with sweat. She’d traded in her heavy dress and wire bustle for a linen chemise halfway through boarding up the windows, safe in the knowledge that no visitors would come to her home with such a storm approaching.

The storm began with a twinkle of wind chimes and turned abruptly into a torrent of rain.

_The linens!_

She hurried out into the storm, trudging barefoot across the slippery, muddy grass. The rain was heavy enough to soak through her linen chemise and plaster her hair to her neck and forehead. She cursed Harry as she tried to work the pins from the clothesline, vision blurred mere inches in front of her face, but the truth was that she’d treasured them probably even more than he had; they were his Aunt Anya’s, a woman who Sansa had known since she was a girl and who had always treated her kindly.

The pounding of hooves and the whinny of a horse caught her attention just as she’d wrenched the linens free. At first, she thought maybe Harry had returned to her; she was surprised to find that it was a different person entirely, a man in a black cloak on an even blacker horse. When he lowered his hood, she almost dropped Anya Waynwood’s heirloom linens right into the muck.

“Jon?”

“Sorry to intrude, Mademoiselle,” he said, bowing deeply despite the rain. An improper title if there ever was one; she was a woman grown and married, but it made her blush nonetheless. “Mind if I find respite in your home ‘til this storm is through?”

She was only able to nod in response. Jon led his horse to the barn, and Sansa almost expected him to wait with the mare in there. Surprise caught her again when he appeared in her doorway, removing his soaked cloak and boots. He was older than she’d remembered, but still wildly handsome, with sad, soulful gray eyes and a mess of black curls, which were dripping rivulets of rain water down his face and neck. She longed to catch them with her tongue.

She handed him the towel that she’d retrieved for herself and got herself another, retreating to the kitchen with a blush to give him time to right himself.

“Would you like a Sazerac, M’sieur?” she called, already pulling two tumblers from the cabinet. Harry expected her to make his drinks, but insisted that his dainty, ladylike wife would not imbibe herself. Surely, Jon wouldn’t mind.

“I would love one, Sansa. And please, call me Jon.” He was smiling at her from the doorway, that small, sweet smile that was so very familiar to her. She couldn’t help giving him one in return. “Will your husband be joining us? I’ve heard so much about him.”

“Harry left earlier for the Royce plantation.”

Jon’s smile fell, and he did little to mask the anger that clouded his features. “Surely he must have had important matters to attend to if he left his darling wife home alone in such a storm.”

“My husband is a very busy man, Jon,” Sansa replied tersely, rinsing the tumblers out with absinthe and adding crushed ice from the ice box.

“And there are no servants?”

“ _Non_ , M’sieur. Times have been difficult here, we have had to let them all go.” She strained the cognac, sugar cubes, and bitters into the tumblers, turning red at her admission.

Jon forced another smile, accepting the drink that she handed to him. “Well, you certainly keep a fine home, Sansa.”

He wandered into the living room as she cleaned up the small mess she’d made. When she found him again, he was peering around the room.

“I’ve tried to keep it close to what my mother would have liked,” she said. He gently took handful of lace curtain, rubbing it between his fingers.

“Catelyn Stark always did like her Irish lace,” he said. He released the curtain and set his Sazerac on the end table near Harry’s favorite chair. Oh, how angry that would make him, even more so if he’d only known the truth between the two of them.

For several long moments, the only sounds that could be heard was the rain, turned horizontal from the wind, splattering against the windows. Curiosity burned her.

“What brings you to Thibodaux, Jon? Last I’d heard, you’d gone off North, to Pennsylvania.”

Jon shrugged. “I missed my home. I missed my family.” He turned to her then, face serious. “I missed you.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Would it be inappropriate for her to confess how badly she’d missed him? How devastated she’d been when she’d heard that he’d left abruptly?

 “imagine how surprised I was to hear that you’d married Harrold Hardying.” She would have never done it, not in a million years, if he hadn’t left. If she’d known he was leaving, she’d have begged him to stay, maybe even begged to go with him.

“Imagine how surprised I was to hear you’d left,” she retorted, eyes blazing with angry tears. “And you never even wrote me.”

He took a stride towards her, fingertips dancing across her cheekbone before brushing her damp hair from her temple. It soothed her; she hated the way she leaned into his touch. She could not be too cross with him, not when he was touching her thus.

“It would have hurt too much, Sansa,” he said. “You know that.”

“I wanted to know _why_.” Her voice was scarce but a whisper, and a tear loosened to roll down her cheek. He caught it with his thumb and wiped it away.

“I’m sorry,” was all he seemed to be able to say. He looked her straight in the eyes when he said it; her heart fluttered in her chest.

“Do you remember our last night?” he continued. Sansa nodded, eyes half-lidded as he cupped her face in his large palm. Of course she’d remembered. How could she forget? He’d crawled in through her bedroom window and _loved_ her, with hands and lips and tongue and cock, like a man possessed. They’d made love perhaps hundreds of times before that night, and it had always been heart-achingly perfect, but it had never been like _that_.

“I will never forget, Jon,” she told him in a whisper. Silence hung heavy in the air between them, punctuated by a crash of thunder before he captured her lips with his own.

Jon’s kiss was achingly familiar, and yet more intense than any she’d ever experienced before. There was passion, but also years of longing, of loss and loneliness in it. Harry had never once, in their two years of marriage, kissed her in such a way.

Her hands slid up the nape of his neck, tangling in his wet curls as she sighed into his mouth, which he took as an invitation for his tongue. She thought that she’d perhaps turn to jelly on the floor if he weren’t holding her the way he was.

“I’d thought about you so often these past few years, Sansa. You’re more beautiful than I remembered,” he said after they parted, resting his forehead on hers. The wind howled outside, banging the shutters as their lips met again.

Her fingers deftly began unbuttoning his wet shirt, and he’d soon joined her. It was not long before he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall with a wet smack to the floor. He was still lean, just like the image of him she’d saved in her memory, but his torso was harder and his arms thicker than she’d remembered, thanks to the iron mines of Pennsylvania. Her fingers stuttered over the ridges of his abdomen and stroked the line of dark hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his trousers. When she pressed her hips into his, she found him ready and hard. He groaned and pulled away from her mouth to breathe in hard, ragged gusts.

“You’ll damn me, Sansa,” he rasped, his Cajun accent headier on his tongue, head ducking to press fervent kisses to her jaw and throat. His hands moved reverently over her body, stroking her sides, her back, her breasts. He inhaled deeply against the skin at the crook of her neck, breathing in her perfume and sweat. “I missed you so damn much.”

His mouth moved down to her bosom, peppering it with sucking kisses until he reached the neckline of her chemise. He growled in frustration and then gathered the fabric at her waist in his fists, tugging the nightdress over her head and flinging it across the room. He stepped back, drank her in, and she felt her skin turn pink.

Her body was different than he’d remembered, certainly. Two miscarriages, one in her seventh month, had ruined her girlish figure; her bottom, hips, and thighs were fleshier, her belly softer, her breasts heavier. Harry’s touch had become less persistent, his gaze less attentive after her body’s change, but it only seemed to make Jon hunger for her more. He moved forward to seize her body once again, burying his face in the valley of her breasts and taking a nipple into his mouth. His thick arms snaked around her hips, one palm taking a handful of her left buttock. He sighed at the weight of it in his hand. “My darling Aphrodite,” he muttered, repeating a nickname he’d given her long ago, when his hips were between her thighs and his mouth at her throat.

“Oh, _Jon_ ,” she sighed, feeling her nipple tighten under his mouth and the pleasure of it run along a nerve that seemed to have a direct pathway to her cunt. The shutters banged once again, more and more persistent. “I’ve longed for you.”

A sound, almost like a whine, issued from the back of his throat and he gripped her tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh, perhaps hard enough to bruise. His mouth traveled from her breasts to a line down her soft belly, lowering to his knees as he went further south. He pressed a sucking kiss to each of her hip bones and she screwed her eyes shut in anticipation.

When he set his mouth to the apex of her thighs, kissing her tuft of red hair at the top of her sex almost chastely, her knees buckled. Sensing her weakness, he guided her forward, towards Harry’s chair, which she fell backwards into when the seat hit the back of her knees. With no hesitation, he grabbed one slim, pale calf and hooked it over his shoulder, allowing her to draw him in until he was mere inches away from her.

Jon pressed sucking kisses to the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs and then set his mouth to her cunt. He was torturously slow at first, parting her folds with his fingers and circling her nub with the very tip of his tongue.

“Jon, _please_ ,” Sansa begged, whimpering like a petulant child, lacing her fingers in his wet curls and pulling him closer. He did not need much convincing; he kissed her cunt like he’d eat an overripe apricot, tongue stroking her with broad strokes. She wrenched her eyes open to the sight of his dark head working between her thighs. Jon’s gray eyes met her blue, and he closed his lips over her nub and began to suck. She keened, gripping his hair almost tight enough to turn him bald.

The sensation was more than enough to send her over the edge, snapping her hips violently against his face. He tried to still her hips with his free hand, but his effort was futile. His mouth latched more firmly upon her, his head rising along with her hips, persistent to the very end until she was pleading for him to relent.

Between her thighs, Jon’s pale face was illuminated by a crack of lightning. She cupped his chin and stroked it affectionately. He leaned into her touch, nuzzling her palm gently with his nose. Her heart swelled.

“Just as I remembered,” she said hoarsely, the rise and fall of her chest becoming more even with time. “ _Better_ than I’d remembered.” His grinned, and then set his mouth to her thighs again, nipping at the smooth white skin gently with his teeth.

“I’ve dreamed of doing that to you, Sansa. Every night, I swear.” She traced his spine with her big toe and he shivered. His mouth was still wet with the evidence of her release, she noticed with a thrill. “I dreamed of the smell of you, the taste of you, the sight of you unraveling before me.”

She shuddered. “Take off your trousers, Jon,” she said. “I need you.”

_I want to feel you, feel you inside me. I want it all, so I can commit it to memory, because you will leave again and this will be all I have left._

He did as she ordered, standing to his feet eagerly and sliding his trousers down to his ankles and then off onto the floor.

His cock was impressive, that much she’d remembered; it was well-sized and jutted proudly from a thatch of black hair. She tentatively reached out and wrapped a small hand around it. He bit his lip and placed his hand over hers. “Please, Sansa.”

She released him, and he took her hand again, guiding her to her feet. He sat down on the chair and pulled her into his lap.

“This is Harry’s chair, you know.”

He grinned again and tucked his hand between them, gripping his cock and brushing the tip of it against her folds. She sighed and screwed her eyes shut, sliding her cunt against him as she pulled her bottom lip between her front teeth. “Oh, I’m well aware.”

Her eyes flew open, meeting his gaze and returning his grin. “You are a wicked man, Jon Snow.”

“Only for you, Sansa, my darling Sansa Stark.” With one swift movement, he guided her down onto his cock and filled her to the hilt. She moaned and he ground out through gritted teeth, “Perfect, sweet, lovely girl, so perfect.”

Jon’s face fell to the valley between her breasts as she began to move against him. He gripped her hips with two broad hands and began guiding her over him, her hips rolling sinuously with each downward thrust. Sansa braced herself on his chest with her hands, fingernails digging into his pectoral muscles as he thrust up into her. This made him groan, dipping his head to take a nipple into his mouth.

“ _Jon_ ,” she sighed, relishing in slide of her cunt against him. She slid her hand between them to put pressure on the spot where she ached; he growled, almost jealous, and batted her hand away, setting his thumb to her clit and rubbing in time with this thrusts. The feeling of it was almost too much to bear, and she tossed her head back and cried out. Jon seized the opportunity to kiss and suck at her throat, marking her with a bruise that she’d surely need to cover up with high-necked dresses for days to come.

“Are you close, Sansa? Can you come for me, my darling?” She nodded, unable to speak except a small affirmative noise that issued from her throat. The heat that had been creeping through her belly reached a boiling point, and she sobbed out her release, hands desperately clutching his shoulders. He followed her not long after, erupting within her, the feeling so sweet that she might have wept.

The storm had become naught but a drizzle of rain and a light rumble of thunder as he slipped out of her and pulled her up to cradle her in his lap. They stayed like this for a while, his fingertips lazily tracing her spine and her head tucked into his neck. She could feel his release trickle out of her and onto the upholstery of Harry’s chair, but she couldn’t find a reason to care.

It should have been his chair, she thought mournfully, as he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. He should have been her husband, and she his wife. This should have been their home in which to grow old together.

It could have always been like this.

And so she wept, and he held her, soothing her with sweet kisses and even sweeter words. He did not weep with her, no; he was too stoic, too manful, but the pain was plain on his face. He brought her to bed and they’d coupled again, this time slow and tender, as the day became evening and the evening became night.

\--

In the morning, the world was brilliant grass green and sky blue.

And gray and black, for those were the colors that greeted her upon her husband’s pillow. Jon Snow rolled her onto her back, pulled the linens over their heads and made love to her one last time.

Harry returned by the early afternoon, just as Jon was preparing his saddle to head off.

“Harrold, darling, this is Jon Snow, a long-time friend of the family,” she said, smiling surreptitiously at Jon as Harry turned to shake his hand. “He had been riding past when the storm came in. We had a grand old time reminiscing, didn’t we, Jon?”

The corners of Jon’s mouth twitched as he nodded, but Harry paid no notice. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Snow. Any friend of the Starks is a friend of mine.”

“Pleasure to meet you, M’sieur Hardyng. You have a lovely home, and your wife was most hospitable to give me respite during such a storm.” Her eyes widened at this, Jon’s mouth broadened into a smile.

“She is a doll,” Harry said, but his voice had turned to disinterest. “Please stop by again soon, it gives my wife such pleasure to have guests, especially when they are old friends.”

“Oh, I will. Her Sazeracs are just too good to pass up.” Jon pulled on his riding gloves and kissed Sansa once on each cheek.

Within minutes, he was gone. Sansa watched his hips roll as his horse set off to a gallop before retreating into the house. Harry immediately settled in his chair (Sansa couldn’t suppress the color rising to her cheeks) and asked for a Sazerac of his own.

“I’m afraid we’re out of absinthe, dear husband. Monsieur Snow is quite the lush."


End file.
